Author's Note: This is my first attempt at X-men fic, and the first time in a long while that I've written fic in general, so I'm hoping it's up to standards. The timeline is a bit undetermined, starting a bit after the first film's end, though it's doubtful that anything from the two later films will be relevant at this point. I'm a fan of the comics as well, so characters outside the film's portrayal are bound to come into play, though a bit later on. I've been writing this for myself and for the enjoyment of a few close friends, with any luck some of you will find it appealing as well. Thanks, I hope you all enjoy it. Reviews are much appreciated.

Disclaimers: I own nothing save my own character. All Marvel/FOX related goodness belongs to the aforementioned and I'm more than happy to keep it that way. Plzdon'tsueme,kthnx.

"Link it to the world,
Link it to yourself,
Stretch it like it's a birth squeeze.
And the love for what you hide,
And the bitterness inside,
Is growing like the new born.
When you've seen, seen
Too much, too young, young,
Soulless is everywhere."
-Muse, 'Newborn'

Chapter 1- "The Way That I Found You."

There's a woman glaring at me across the smooth, polished wood of the bar and I know she disapproves of the cigarette I've balanced delicately between two fingers. Nosey bitch probably thinks I'm too young to be in a place like this anyway and, not that it's any of her business, I am. But no one else has come to question me or the glass of bourbon in my hand and thus I stay my ground, meeting her gaze evenly and sending a smoke ring in her direction for her troubles. Scowling, she leaves.

I'm not normally a moody bastard, but she's clearly caught me on an off day, inhaling half a pack of Camels and three shots of liquid fire before two in the afternoon. I should be in school right now, or just getting out at this rate, but there's no way in hell I'm going back there after what happened last week and I have high doubts that they'd be thrilled to see me walking back through their doors right now anyway. Maggie had been kind enough to inform me through a pay phone that the words "Adrian Mills is a freak" had been spray painted to my locker and the way I saw it, they were pretty goddamn right. I mean, I may be strange, I may have been a bit of a late-bloomer, but no normal girl at age seventeen can cause literal tons of water to come flying down the hallway after some group of jackasses-

I've replayed that scene over in my head so many times I wouldn't be surprised if I knew it better than my own reflection. There's no need to embellish upon it now, or the massive hole in the wall of the gymnasium. Or the five kids in the hospital. Shit, I really am in trouble this time. I could have killed someone, a notion that's never really crossed my mind in any sincere sense until recently. It's terrifying, and I have no idea what to do.

There's a TV above the bar with CNN on close-caption and it's really all I can do to keep from cringing. It's taken me a few days to admit it to myself, that I'm not normal, that I'm a genetic freak, an anomaly within society and all these anti-mutant rallies they've been playing clips of are really starting to unnerve me. I never asked for this, this awful responsibility that's been thrust into my hands; I never wanted any of it. Not to say that normalcy has always come easily, but honestly, do you really need anything else to make you feel awkward at my age? Teenagers live and breathe insecurities, and mine causes tidal waves to chase after the swim team.

Taking a glance up at the television again I shake my head at the protests, motioning for the man at the bar to refill my glass. He obliges and I sigh, paying my tab for the afternoon. I need to keep on the move, lose myself in the city a bit more before I can become really complacent. It's been this way for a few days. I mean, really, who is stupid enough to stick around when the principal (and the fire and police departments respectively) call your parents and explain to them that their child demolished half the school? I saved them the trouble of chucking me curbside and fled. Pops was still on the phone by the time I was out the door, he probably didn't even hear it shut he was so astounded.

I need to stop thinking about that afternoon. Truth be told, I've blocked most of it from my immediate memory; right now I can't afford to dwell on it all. I've only got so many resources and there's nowhere to go. It's daunting, yet I prefer it to being sent away somewhere, to some institution where they'll try and "cure" me. Screw that, I can barely use the toilet without having the water over-react to everything. I light up another cigarette, grab my back-pack and head for the door. It's somewhat sunny out today, thank god, none of the rain that's been pouring down non-stop for the last two days. Were I at home my mother would be making some stupid comment about the slight, natural highlights in my hair being enhanced by the potentially harmful UV rays shining down upon me, but there's no one here to prattle on at me now and I'm walking down the sidewalk with my hair, brown and rather plain looking insofar as I'm concerned, pulled back, trying to attract as little attention as possible. I though, of course, am no great example of stealth, nor am I fantastic for having held my drink, and when I see a cop car at the corner of the street ahead of me I back-peddle so fast I almost give myself whiplash. The police know about me, they know I've gone, who I am, what I look like, and most importantly, what I am, something I haven't even really been able to come to terms with yet. This said, there's no way in hell I'm stumbling up to them, obviously in some sort of inebriated state, advertising myself as a drunken mutant runaway. I duck into a nearby alleyway and hope to god no one comes looking.

"Adrian Mills, your heart is beating so goddamn loud you couldn't hear a dump truck if it parked next to you," I mutter to myself, irritated. I'm on edge now. I know things about this city, the so called "City of Angels", what happens when you're not careful, and I don't want to be one of those people that falls through the cracks and disappears. Those are the kids sold into the sex trade, the poor bastards who get mugged and left in a dumpster, the homeless drug addict and the common criminal. I'd always thought I'd at least get past high school for fuck's sake, and now it looks as though I've only these stomach-turning options for my glorious future. It literally makes me queasy, though that's bound to be the product of half a bottle of hard liquor on an empty stomach and, setting my backpack next to me, I lean over an open trashcan and proceed to vomit for all I'm worth. Wiping my mouth on the back of my hand I stagger to the side a bit, trying to regain my sense of balance, the nausea having temporarily subsided. I know I must look like a total mess, some stupid, inexperienced, scared kid, and it makes me want to cry with frustration.

"Hey, are you all right?" There's a voice behind me. Someone's addressing me, the puking wonder. I grab my backpack, hoist it onto my shoulders unsteadily and turn to face them, only to feel whatever false confidence I had plummet down into my feet, replaced by something far more tangible.

Fear.

There's a man standing less than ten feet away from me and I'd be stupid not to feel the dangerous, scary vibe rolling off of him. He's not terribly tall, only about six feet in height, but he's eyeing me like I'm dinner and it's the most wholly unsettling thing I've ever experienced in my life. I must look like I'm full of shit when I assume what I suppose is a healthy, normal stance, shrugging off-handedly as I tell him that, yes, I'm fine, I'm just taking a short cut.

He leers, dark eyes seeming to grow even more so as he begins to advance towards me. "This is a dead end, dollface."

Mere words fail to describe just how fast I turn about and tear down the alley, away from him. I know it's a fools' chance, perhaps the end will be made of chain-link fence and then I can just climb up it, but if it's brick I know I'm fucked. He's got more mass to him, he's taller and I can almost hear him breathing right behind me. Turning the corner I curse loudly, panic seizing whatever rationality I have left in my possession. Now I'm up against a brick wall and J. Doe Psycho-Rapist is laughing as he stalks into view. This isn't happening, this isn't happening, this isn't happening-

Something drips onto my head from above and I look up to catch view of a leaky pipe. "Please, oh please god-"

I'm shaking and he's putting his hands around my throat. "Let's make those pretty blue eyes nice and watery for daddy." He doesn't even have to ask, there are tears rolling down my cheeks and all control I've had over myself has long-since gone. Tears are soaking my face, my jacket, as he presses me up against the wall, and it takes me a moment to notice the change of his expression, eyes now cast heavenward in shock. "What the-"

A large jet of water shoots down, blasting him away from me and into the side of a building. He crumples to the ground like a rag doll, a rather large dent obvious where he had hit. As the water continues to pound down into the wall I stand there gaping at his body for a moment before I run back up the way I'd come and out of the godforsaken alley. I don't know if he's dead or not, but I'll be damned if I stick around to find out. That much water is bound to get someone's attention soon enough and I'm not going to be anywhere nearby when it does. A freak like me the cause of all that damage is something I don't think the authorities would take to kindly to. I don't even want to know how much I owe for the school gym. I'm not sure where I'm running to, only that the soles of my shoes are slamming down on the concrete and taking me away from the creep in the alley and out of the line of blame.

Looking back over my shoulder after a few minutes of hell-bent running I'm comforted slightly by the knowledge that no one has followed me, easing my ever-increasing paranoia. I can barely think for the fear that grips me, and this much is evident when I run head-on into what felt like another mass of stone. Falling flat on my ass I shake my head to clear it, confused as to why on earth the side of an apartment complex is wearing a pair of worn black leather boots and blue jeans. Holding my aching skull with one hand, I attempt to push myself up with the other, ready to bolt at a moments notice should this individual prove to be as unsavory as the last. "Sorry, I didn't see you, I'm in a big hurry, some guy cornered me in an alleyway, I think I might have killed him-"

I must have smacked myself silly on this guy because I can't even stop the flow of words from bubbling out of my mouth as I finally manage to stand, probably looking every bit as insane as I felt.

The man before me narrowed his eyes, looking me over. He wore an old, brown leather jacket atop a few other layers of shirts, a denim jacket, soundly pulling off the classic rugged, manly look. And my god did he have the body for it. It wasn't something one saw often in the city and I took notice. His hair was a controlled mess unlike anything I'd ever witnessed, wildly shaped, sloping down into mutton chops I'd not seen the likes of since I'd last gone through my history text book (well over two weeks ago, I assure you). But it was his eyes that really got my attention, the narrowed bits of hazel that bore down on me with a startling frankness that snapped me out of my terror and back into present reality. The one where I had currently admitted to the assault, and possible murder, of a man some six blocks behind me. And to think I'd previously fancied myself smart.

He raised an eyebrow, as if to enquire how any of this was his problem. I didn't know what it had to do with him either, but I was so over the top at that point I couldn't stop talking if I'd wanted to. Which I did, rather desperately in fact.

"I need help." This was whispered as I tried to steel myself into appearing less than crazed. "There's something… something's wrong with me."

He rolled his eyes. "Kid, do I look like help to you?" The sad thing was that, at this rate, he did. Maybe it was the fact that he had the physique of a well-seasoned brawler or it was just that look of sheer, guarded indifference towards the world, but something about him just screamed "safe" and I wanted in.

"Please, I'm begging you, I just-" he stepped around me and walked towards the corner. "Please, sir!"

At this point he'd made it around the corner and had passed from my sight. Frantic for some sort of aid, I ran over to it only to find that he'd vanished, my Knight in Denim Armor, gone forever. It wasn't until I felt the hand clamp down on my shoulder, spinning me about, that I realized just how truly screwed I was.

"Hello dollface."

This just really isn't my week.

Before I could even scream at the bloodied horror that was standing before me he wrapped an arm around my face, hand over my mouth, and dragged me kicking and flailing off the sidewalk and into a nearby passage. Somewhere in my haze of panic I wondered how the hell he'd found me, how he was even able to walk after the hit he'd taken, yet it was all moot now as he threw me to the ground, wrenching the backpack off and tossing it aside. You always think about all the things you'd do if you were being tracked down by some murderous freak, all the stuff you'd do to vanquish said opponent and come out victorious, but that means fuck all when you can barely throw a punch and you're scrambling to get up and regain your senses after your skull has bounced off the pavement a few times. I barely have time to roll into a ball on the concrete before he starts kicking me in the ribs.

"Come on you slut, look at what you did to me! You thought you could get away after that, huh? Get up! Get the fuck up!" The last four words were punctuated by a set of particularly brutal kicks and I practically bit through my lip to keep from wailing. I raise myself to my knees and he grabs me by the hair, dragging me up the rest of the way. "Daddy's gonna make you real sorry, Daddy's gonna make you bleed."

There's no mistaking the glint of the switchblade in his hand, nor the force by which my jacket is yanked from my near-hysterical form. "Please don't hurt me, I'm sorry. Please let me go." I thought I was such tough shit, going out to rough it in the big city. Well, this is what happens to stupid kids who run away; we get fucked up. Sliced, diced, mauled, abused, raped, killed, the works. I'm already starting to picture my legacy like it's an episode of Law & Order, for god's sake. Yet right as he fastens his hand around my wrist, the grip harsh and vice-like, he stops, looking at something over my shoulder.

"Not a good idea, bub." The low growl gets my attention and I snap my head around to face the intruder. Please believe me when I say that I almost started crying (yet again) when my eyes met the fierce expression of my very own Knight in Denim Armor.

Where my attacker was obviously dangerous in an uncontrolled, psychotic sense, the other man virtually radiated this aura of badass, teenage as it sounds. He could have been standing next to Hulk Hogan and he'd still look ready to do some damage. J.D. Psycho-Rapist must have noticed, because his hold on my wrist lessened slightly. "This isn't any of your business, pal," he intoned hostilely, trying to scare the smaller man off. To say that he failed would be the understatement of the century; my Knight began to approach.

Noting that I was his only shield between himself and my potential savior, my assailant pulled me up against him, holding the blade to my throat. "Come any closer and I'll slice her throat, asshole. She's mine." His grip shifted, an arm snaking round my waist, much to my revulsion. "Of course, if you want to wait until we're done, you're more than welcome to have a turn. She's a sweet, tender young thing."

I was half expecting him to lick my face after the offer, and I managed to voice my apparent disgust. "Fuck you, you sick piece of shit!" Nothing Emmy-award-winning, I know, but under my current circumstances I was hard-pressed to think of anything else. The knife was pushed more menacingly against my throat for my efforts and I ceased my vocalizations. What really scared me was that this guy probably didn't even need me alive to fulfill all his twisted fantasies.

My Knight pauses for a moment, possibly noting the same thing, and I look to my feet, wondering if I'll even be alive to see him pummel the man behind me. It's then that I realize the drainage grate below us and feel the glimmer of something come to life in my mind. Water. I can hear it moving, flowing underground, powerful swells from all the recent rainfall. Crossing the fingers on my left hand, I hope to god this will work and give Mutton Chops a wink.

I can see his eyes narrow slightly and, remarkably enough, he sniffs the air like some sort of animal, and I have to wonder what it is he gets a whiff of. For his sake I hope it isn't the collective bunch of trashcans to my right, because they're rank like nothing I've ever experienced before. They probably smell like I will after this bastard takes me home and chops me up, but I can't be fucked to give him the opportunity to get that far. We're at a standstill here, three people caught in some sad modern parody of an old John Wayne movie before I feel the surface we're standing upon start to move.

In his complete surprise my soon-to-be murderer drops his blade, wondering how on earth water is traveling against gravity, up his legs. With a yelp he leaps backward and I try to wrench free of his grip, struggling desperately to-

"Sweet suffering fuck," I breath, momentarily unable to describe just what I see barreling towards me. It's all over in a matter of seconds, but forever will I recall the look of sheer ferocity that contorted his features. It was frighteningly animalistic, intense in that brutal, determined nature and I barely had time to move before he'd knocked the man backward with a jaw-shattering blow. I say this only because I actually heard the crunch and snap of bone as John Doe Psycho-Rapist flew into the aforementioned rancid trashcans and I was left standing in wide-eyed awe at the man less than three inches in front of me.

"You all right, kid?" He looks me over quickly, the gruff tone of his voice calling me to attention. I'm beyond words at this point though, so I do the only thing I can at the moment, drained as I am; I blink and barely manage to turn before I throw up onto the asphalt. Fantastic. Because the big, tough man really wants to see just how useless I am in my post-drunken state. Steeling myself, I drag the back of my hand across my mouth and turn back to face him.

"Yeah, I'm uh… do you have any gum?" I finish lamely, silently cursing whatever possessed me to intone such base and trivial desires at a moment like this. I have no idea what to say or do, a simple "thank you" seeming too unappreciative for the fate he just saved me from having to endure. He raises an eyebrow and, unthinking, I mimic the gesture. I feel awkward now, obscenely so, and the adrenaline I've had running through my system these last few days has only slowed it's pace a bit. He takes a step back and I watch him run a hand through his wiry hair, which does absolutely nothing to fix its unmanageable state, trying to decide upon a course of action.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," I mumble quietly, eyes going to my backpack lying discarded to my right. Unsteadily I go over and kneel beside it, rummaging through the outside pockets until I find my nearly flattened pack of Camels. I can feel his eyes on my back and I tense as I mutter a curse, prying open the lid and taking out a cigarette. Standing and feeling around my pockets for a lighter, I turn, pulling out the item, bringing it to the end of my cigarette. We regard one another over the flame momentarily before he seems to make a decision.

"Grab your bag, we're leaving." He turns to walk back to the opposite direction of the alley when I start coughing, choking on my own exhale in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"You're not safe out here, kid. You've got nowhere to go and you sure as hell don't know anything about living on the street," he's facing me now, giving me a hard look. There's a hint of exasperation in his tone but it does nothing to quell my now heightened sense of distrust. My Knight in Denim Armor he may be, but I know absolutely nothing about him, save that he packs quite a punch, and I'll be damned if I just disappear into the night with some strange, surly man I met on the street less than an hour ago.

Appearing to sense my unease he sighs, irritation dimming as he walks back towards me. I frown but manage to hold my ground, taking a long drag and blowing out the smoke slowly, sizing him up. His former disinterest in the street had obviously shifted and I've yet to find out if that's anything truly beneficial. He stands in front of me, making no move to touch me, something I'm vaguely grateful for in my current state. "Look, kid, I'm not going to hurt you, but I'd rather get out of here before someone walks by and finds that son of a bitch, 'cause it's going to mean a whole lot of trouble. You get what I'm saying?"

Oh, that part was easy enough to grasp. Swarming spectators, police men, handcuffs, large font bolded in newspaper headlines; the scenes moved vividly through my mind as I nodded my head, dropping the butt of my cigarette onto the pavement and crushing it out with my foot. I looked up and held his gaze. "You know what I am, how do I know you're not going to turn me in? Sell me off?"

He was unfazed by the frankness of my question and I was inwardly pleased, much to my surprise. "I don't sell out my own kind."

With that he turned and made his way back out the alley and, grabbing my backpack and jacket, I ran after him. "Wait!"

I could almost see the roll of his eyes as he turned around, impatience becoming apparent. "Come on kid, we don't have time."

I stumble to a halt next to him, looking to all the world like the klutz I am. At this point I could give a fuck less, I've just met another mutant, another one of my kind. Not to get all teenage and emotional about it, but for the first time in what feels like a long, long while someone else actually understands me. I'm not alone. I must look like I'd gotten out of doing final exams the rest of my life when I blurt, "You- you're one too?"

"For Christ's sake, kid, didn't I just say that? Now keep a lid on it and lets get out of here." He's walking forward at what appears to be breakneck speed for someone as worn out as I am, but the adrenaline has just gotten a boost from an undercurrent of something that feels vaguely like hope and I'm practically fucking skipping next to him. This is an uncharacteristic sort of sensation, and the back of my mind is wary of what is yet to come. It's not often I keep the company of random, strange men with questionable grooming tastes but I'm not about to turn any of this down. I've got nowhere to go and nothing better to do with myself. After all, he did save me from the hopefully extinct John Doe Psycho-Rapist, and if that doesn't give me the beginnings of a burgeoning hero-worship, I don't know what will.

It takes me a few moments to reign myself in and keep up a normal gait, strolling along innocuously past the other people on the street. It's all I can do to keep from smirking when I note that none of them have a Knight in Denim Armor to protect them. "You don't have to keep calling me 'kid', you know," I supply as we wait by a crosswalk. "I have a name."

He grunts. "Everyone younger than me is 'kid' as far as I'm concerned."

I raise an eyebrow at him, looking him over. "Oh really? And how old are you?" My parents looked older for fuck's sake, and noting that it's doubtful I'll ever be seeing them again it's probably best that I keep those thoughts as far away from my conscious mind as humanly- mutantly- possible.

"Old enough," he mutters, crossing the street, hardly waiting for me to catch up with him. It obvious now that I've asked too many questions and I quiet, focusing instead on keeping up with his pace and trying desperately to ignore the aches and pains scattered ruthlessly about my body. I don't even want to know what I look like right now. It doesn't take much imagination noting some of the glances from random passers-by, pity and displeasure intermingled in a single, brief once-over. I stare down a man in a business suit as he walks past, daring him to comment. I hear a snort to my left and turn my attention to my newfound companion. "What? Until I have a billboard plastered above me reading something like, 'World's Largest Potato, 20 miles!', I'd rather people didn't gape at me like I'm a fucking roadside attraction."

"Kid, you look like about 20 different kinds of fucked up right now, I wouldn't expect any better."

We turn a corner and head into a parking structure. "Mills, damnit. My name is Adrian Mills," I grumble. After all I've been through today something as simple as that monosyllabic word almost feels like a curse to me, and I'm getting pretty fucking sick of it, regardless of whom it's coming from.

"All right then, Mills," he remedies, though I'd be an idiot to assume that he really cared at the moment. We halt and it takes me a moment to realize that we've arrived at his car. Truck, rather. And that's being generous. I'm almost expecting the thing to be wound round with duct tape seeing the shape that it's in. I hesitate by the passenger's door, fingers just barely touching the metal. I wasn't really sure what was supposed to happen now, though it occurred to me that merely assuming that I was going to be walking him to his car as a means of saying 'thank you' was probably one of the stupidest things I'd thought all day, right up there with the bourbon on an empty stomach mid-afternoon. I leap backward as the door flies open, barely missing me. "Are you getting in or what?"

I shake my head, clearing it as I step up and into the cab, depositing my backpack on the floor next to my feet and shutting the door as gently as possible. Neither of us say a thing as he starts the engine up and drives down the ramp and out into the street. I click my seatbelt into place and it's now that I realize that, whatever this is, wherever we're going and to whatever end, I'm in this for the long hall. I turn my head slightly to look at him again, my eyes resting on those ridiculous mutton-chops without fail before I steel my gaze forward, watching all the familiarity fly by me until it's gone.
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